The walls rocked, the footrail of the bed wavered, and the girl's head had the nebulosity of a composite photograph. Gerald sympathised with his friend’s irritation. . . Single pearls— Lord knows where they come from!—are always turning up, some of them of fine lustre; but I never set eyes on them. “Now I’ll have what I want from you, wife. There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife.
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